


a semblance of spring

by porcelain2ivory2steel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, for the good of the north
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelain2ivory2steel/pseuds/porcelain2ivory2steel
Summary: I will father no child but yoursBran tells Sansa she needs an heir. There is only one man Sansa is willing to let help.





	a semblance of spring

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe when Drogon burned down the throne the Seven Kingdoms disbanded into seven independent countries. Jon wasn't sent to the wall but went beyond it to... think? I capitalised the North because it's independent now (I don't really know what I'm doing). 
> 
> Obligatory comment about how I didn't think I'd ever write fanfic about these two (and then started and stopped after season six only to come back and write one now). Thank you to C, for reading and putting up with this without having any interest in this show or this ship. You're the best <3

Sansa is in the godswood when she sees him again. It’s Ghost who comes first, the sound of his paws on the snow causing her to turn her gaze from the heart tree. The white direwolf bounds over to her with an exuberance she doesn’t generally associate with him, an exuberance that feels out of place here, like something from a time past. He gentles when he reaches her side, settling back onto his hind legs and waiting expectantly, eyes pleading.

She wraps her arms around him, burying her head in his fur to ascertain that it really is him, that’s he’s truly here and not a fantasy. “Oh, my boy, where have you been?” He smells of the air close to Castle Black, but mayhaps even clearer again, like places Sansa has never seen. Her hands still. “Is Jon with you?” What if he isn’t? Would that mean…

And then there is a crunch on the snow, a lighter tread than Brienne or Sam’s, but heavier than Arya’s, though oftentimes she still forgets that Sansa prefers to hear her coming. Sansa rises, shaking off the snow from her gown.

He’s bowing to her, so she cannot see his face at first, can only hear him greet her with “Your grace.” She stiffens. She does not want to be addressed in the same manner he spoke to the last queen he claimed to be his.

“Just Sansa, please. We are… cousins after all, Jon.” Cousins. That word she’s clung to since the day Bran told them, that day in this godswood when Jon’s eyes couldn’t quite meet hers. She’s not sure he’s looked her in the eye since that day at all.

It’s the weirwood tree he’s watching when he replies, seemingly mesmerised by the leaves that stay so red in the midst of this waning winter. “Sansa. Bran tells me you are well.”

Her brother must have sent him here, was likely waiting for him in the courtyard the way he does for Sansa when she returns from visits to Wintertown or further afield. “Yes. And you, Jon, are you well?” He doesn’t look unwell. Thinner, definitely, the scar above his left eyebrow more prominent, and while he looks to have hardened from when she last saw him before he left to go beyond the wall he is not haggard like he is when she pictures him sometimes.

“As well as I can be,” he answers. Sansa thinks she is about as well as she can be too, three years into her reign. Ghost inclines his head upwards, offering her his neck to scratch. She does so, and it makes her think of nights in her solar with Jon at her side after they retook their home.

“Will you be visiting with us for long?” She does not believe he is here to stay.

“A short spell. I shall leave you to your prayers, my… Sansa.” He bows again and makes to leave, Ghost still at her side.

“Jon?” she calls. When he turns back she steps towards him. “It is good to see you.”

“It is good to see you, too.” His voice is warmer now, a little honey soothing the hoarseness.

“I shall accompany you inside. We must see that you eat well while you are here.” She will take care of her cousin while she can.

She offers him her arm as they leave the godswood.

He does not take it.

 

*****

 

Jon returns again and again after the first time, the visits varying in length and occuring every few moons. Sometimes he and Arya are here at the same time, sometimes they are not. Sometimes he stays a sennight, sometimes one night. Sansa still isn’t sure what exactly he does beyond the wall, beyond spending some time with the wildings and more time brooding. Her one constant is her work, the needs of the people she serves, and Bran. Her young brother who with the passing of time seems to becoming more of a man and less and less the cold boy who told her she looked beautiful the night she wed Ramsay.

It is not like her evenings with Jon were, but it is pleasant all the same these evenings by the fire with her brother. Often they share her solar with Brienne, Sam, and Gilly, but this evening is is only the two Starks in Winterfell. She is trying to make sense of Lord Cerwyn’s atrocious penmanship when Bran raises his head from the manuscript he is writing. “You should have an heir, Sansa.”

She shuts her eyes for a second. “I have two heirs. You and Arya.”

“That is not a long line of succession. A cripple and an adventurer. I cannot father children.” There is no sorrow in his voice but she rests her hand over his in comfort.

“No, but it is likely that Arya can have children. If she chooses not to wed Gendry, or whoever else she might like to have a babe with, I can legitimise the child.” Sansa has no issue with a bastard inheriting her throne, but she imagines the Northern lords might.

“ _You_ should have a child, Sansa,” Bran persists.

She places the letter on the table by the fire and folds her hands in her lap. “I have thought about raising a child. A babe who has lost its parents, or one whose parents cannot afford to care for another child.” She yearns for it, when she sees Gilly with the latest addition to their brood, or hears little Sam and little Jon playing in the keep. She wants a babe to hold in her arms, one that is hers to love. “But the lords might not accept that child as my heir. They will want a blood relation.”

“You will bear children, Sansa.” He is speaking with the finality he only has when he knows, when he has seen it.

She hates when he does that. It reminds her of the certainties she used to hold - that she would marry a prince, that knights were heroes real and true, where will _we_ go? She reaches for her sewing and continues the stitching on a tunic she’s making for Arya. “Oh, and what man would I feel comfortable to let me touch me?” She has grown used to Sam examining her if she is ill, but she could never countenance asking him to do anything like that. Mayhaps if she were to pretend to be expecting...

Bran answers in a tone that Sansa would struggle to describe as anything other than airy. “Jon arrives tomorrow.”

This is ridiculous. “Did he send you a raven?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

“No, I watched him through the eyes of one,” Bran scoffs, as if she is the one who is not making any sense.

“Naturally. And did your raven see anything that would suggest Jon would be amenable to fathering the future king or queen?” Sansa thinks it would be futile to protest that she would never lay with Jon. She doesn’t wish to see Bran’s eyes when she lies to him. She’s lied to herself on this matter often enough over these past few years.

“Family, duty, honour.”

Sansa waits for an explanation, but, as so often is the case with her brother, none comes. “Those were Mother’s words, never Jon’s.”

“I think those are words Jon lives by too,” Bran says mildly.

She nearly pricks her finger with how violently she threads the needle. “If Jon put family first he would be here.” She takes a breath. “Or he would keep us apprised of how he fares when he is away, like Arya does.” Sansa does not begrudge her sister her need for travel, her desire to roam. On some days when she listens to petition after petition Sansa dreams of somewhere with endless blue skies over mountains of snow. She never longs for the south anymore.

“Jon may think he is doing what is best for our family. I never suggested that he is right.” There’s a certain dry humour that appears in Bran’s words now and Sansa can never quite fight the smile it creates in her. “Sometimes different roads lead to the same castle,” he intones as if he’s quoting from a story. It’s not one Sansa is familiar with. “You should speak about this with Jon tomorrow.” And with that he takes his leave.

She most certainly will not speak of this to Jon tomorrow.

 

It is almost the first thing she says to him when he arrives mid-morning as she writes to the King of the Westerlands about a timber agreement. “Bran told me you would be coming today.” She says it more to Ghost, who has buried his head in her skirts, than to Jon.

He’s cleaned before coming to greet her, he always does this after his travels. “What other wisdom has he been imparting lately?”

It might be the unexpected jest that prompts the words to spill from her. “He thinks you should father my heir.”

“I’m your cousin. Arya’s children would come before any of mine, and I do not plan on fathering any.”

Of course Jon’s mind wouldn’t go to Bran’s true suggestion. “He thinks you should father my heir on me.” Ghost somehow moves closer to her, comforting her against his owner’s upcoming rejection.

“Oh. Oh.” Sansa thinks she can hear children running in the corridors, and it seems especially cruel in this moment. She refuses to let in to her desire to rest her head on top of Ghost’s. She is a queen, she will not cower. Jon clears his throat, “Is that… What do you want, Sansa?”

“I cannot think of the last time I got what I wanted.” Not something of this magnitude, not in the way she would have wanted. When she looks up at him his grey eyes are on hers, kind and sincere and… Jon. “I would like a child,” she whispers.

He nods once. “We shall talk more this evening.” He turns on his heels and goes, leaving Sansa with his direwolf and an unfinished letter about pine.

 

By some strange coincidence everyone decides to retire after dinner, leaving only herself and Jon by the fire. Even Brienne goes to her bed, commenting that she trusts Jon to protect Sansa after Bran sends her a firm look. Sansa pours herself a generous serving of Arbor gold while Jon contemplates the flames, drinking his ale in silence.

“Are you missing the fermented goat's milk?” Sansa asks, uncrossing her legs when Ghost lays his head on her lap.

Jon laughs, short and a little underused, but a laugh nonetheless. It makes her cheeks go red. “No, I do still prefer Northern ale.”

“Good,” Sansa says simply.

He closes his eyes. “Are you sure about this, Sansa?”

There is no use in subterfuge or sleight of word, there is only one thing he means. “I need an heir. If I were to raise a child not of my blood I do not think the lords would accept them, and if Arya were to have a child… I would want my heir raised here, at Winterfell, and… I do not know if that is the life Arya wants for her or her child. A child should be with their mother.” She runs her hand over Ghost’s soft fur. “And I would like a babe of my own.”

“You should have one,” Jon says immediately. “As many as you want. But…” He takes a swig from his tankard. “Are you sure that I am the one you want to father them? We would have to…”

Gods, what a ridiculous man. She rolls her eyes at him, feeling quite like a girl again. “Yes, Jon, I am aware of how babes are made.” She straightens her skirt. “I understand if you cannot go along with this, if… if it would be too difficult considering our past. I would never order you. It is merely a request. I…” She should never have mentioned it. “I’m sorry. This is unfair. I can raise an orphan child and we will find a way, or Arya may become a mother, or…”

“I can do it,” he says, voice betraying only the slightest strain. “I would do anything to give you the family you deserve. I… I only worry that this will be unpleasant for you… considering our past,” he repeats her euphemism. “And…” He clenches his fists.

“You are the only man I would trust,” she says softly, tracing her finger along Ghost’s face. “The only one who makes me feel safe.” She cannot say he is the only one who hasn’t hurt her, but the rest is as true as anything she has ever said.

“Well then, when would you like to start?” She chokes on her wine and he reaches out to help her, his hand burning against her skin as it skims hers.

“I… I wasn’t expecting this discussion to be so short.”

“We don’t have to start tonight,” he hurries. “Whenever you are comfortable.”

She’s not sure she will ever be comfortable with this plan. “You have no more questions?”

He sits back in his chair, looking down at the ground. “Will the children be Snows?”

“Starks. If the Mormonts had bears sire their children, I may have a wolf sire mine. And you are a wolf, Jon,” she reminds him. He stares into the fire for a long moment before nodding, the action a slightly reluctant one. Sansa squirms in her highbacked chair. “If you are agreeable, mayhaps we should begin tonight.” Jon may leave again soon, they should make the most of the time they have to conceive a child.

Her cousin (he has always been her cousin) stands up and Sansa’s shoulders drop by the tiniest of amounts before he offers her his arm. She takes it.

Sansa starts removing her dress as soon as she enters her chamber, she doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking. A part of her itches to watch Jon as he undresses, but he is firmly staring in the opposite direction away from her and she will afford him the same respect. They are here to give the North an heir, not for pleasure.

She remains in her shift and he in his shirt as they turn towards one another again, both taking small steps to her bed. They hover at its end.

Jon clears his throat. “How would you prefer to do this?” He turns and sits down. She mirrors him.

“I don’t know which way is most… conducive.” She should have asked Sam, she should have prepared for this.

“Another time. Tonight…” She can feel him glancing at her but she cannot bring herself to look at him, to see what is in his eyes. “We shall attempt and see if this is comfortable for you. If it’s what you want.”

She slides her hand closer to him on the bed, until their fingers brush against one another. “I would like to be able to see your face.” She needs to know it is him here with her.

“Of course.” He shifts a little. “Would you wish to lie down?”

Laying together is for lovers, and that is not what she and Jon are. She bites her lip and, so quickly that is startles him, stands up and seats herself in his lap, hands tight on his shoulders. Jon takes a shuddering breath and she leans her temple against his. They simply breathe together for a moment before his hands move to her thighs, fingers soothingly stroking her bare skin under her shift. She cannot tell who he is putting at ease, whether this is to comfort her or himself. But it feels good, and while initially it calms her, as his fingers move north this calm is replaced by an excitement, a drive.

Sansa gasps when his fingers reach their destination, when he guides them over her folds. Her body rocks against his hand, she cannot still herself, and he murmurs a noise of approval, tightening his grip on her thigh. When his finger enters her it is not an intrusion but what she needs, what she wants, and when another joins it feels even better, so much better than when she does this herself. Jon rubs his thumb along the crease of her leg before finding that sweet spot where she craves him.

A sigh of his name passes from her lips and she can feel him hard against her leg, but this doesn’t frighten her, it just makes her want more. Her chamber surely isn’t usually this warm, her shift is clinging to her, and Jon’s shirt is almost translucent. “I am ready,” she tells him. She has never been this wet, is sure that she must be dripping onto his fingers, and while this may not be ladylike she will not fixate on that until after he has left her bed.

He merely curls his fingers inside her, his thumb working on her in the most wonderful way. “The wildings say that a woman will only conceive after she peaks.” He has always been dutiful.

“And what cause have you to know this?” It has nothing to do with her, she has no claim on him.

“People talk, Sansa.” There’s a teasing note to his voice, one that she never expected here. And then the serious tone that is so familiar to her, one that sounds of vows. “I will father no child but yours.”

She peaks like she never has before, a quaking that flows through her, making her glorious, hallowed. Her hand reaches for his cock and Jon swears, the hard consonants hitting her ear, making her all the more needy. He kisses her cheek as she slides down on him, and as his cock fills her cunt a moan leaves her mouth. She chases his lips with hers and while at first his kisses remain gentle, just like his hips, they soon become more powerful, his tongue becoming sloppy as his thrusts turn erratic.

Her second peak surprises her, the wave engulfing her and then Jon as he spills inside her. She wraps her arms around him and doesn’t let go, him burying his head in her neck and making no effort to move. It is all to improve the odds of conceiving. For him, at least.

Jon joins her in her chamber every night for the three sennights of his stay.

The next sennight her moon’s blood does not come and Sansa knows she is carrying his child.

 

*****

 

Jon does not appear in Winterfell again for nigh on seven moons and Sansa doesn’t know whether to bar her door or drag him to her bed. This tension has been coiling inside of her, and no matter how many times she touches herself it will not go away. No matter how many times she casts her mind back to how it felt when it was his fingers inside her, his cock, it can never bring her the same release, can never slake her thirst. And as her body changes and her babe moves she wishes that Jon were here to see it, to feel their child. But he did not come when she had Bran send a raven with the news. It takes all her queenly strength not to throw her papers at him him when he appears, the dust of the road still on his cloak.

“I thought you might come sooner,” she spits out. She feels petty in a way she hasn’t in a very long time, but she is carrying his babe. He could have at least sent a letter back.

He bows, then peers over her desk to where her hands rest over their child. The little wolf is quiet for once. “I wanted to, but I… I did not think you had need of me.”

Sansa snorts. “You are family, Jon. There is always need of you at Winterfell.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “There is trouble beyond the wall. A fight between the clans.”

“Will it affect the North?” Has he come to warn her? Is this visit merely one of diplomacy?

“No, I will make sure of that. I came to see you before… I do not know whether the fighting will be over before the babe comes.”

“Fighting?” The shrillness scratches at her ears. “This is no fight of yours.”

He lays his hands on her desk. “Yes it is, Sansa. These people fought with me, with us, for Winterfell, for the whole of Westeros. I have a duty to them.”

Her palms lay on her papers, the tips of her fingers mere inches from his. She rises from her chair. “And what of your duty to your child?” She will not speak of his duty to her, mayhaps he thinks that discharged.

Jon stares at her stomach, she has stopped trying to disguise her condition. Thankfully, the Northerners have accepted this blessing without questioning its providence. “I did not know whether you wanted me to have a duty to this child.”

She snaps her mouth open but then finds she has no argument against this. She had never spoken of who he would be to the future king or queen. “I am sorry I did not make that clear.” She steps out from behind her desk, her voice softening. “You are the babe’s father. I want your child to know that, to know you.” She rubs a hand over her stomach, looking down at where their little wolf grows. “You could… you could stay, if you wanted. You are always welcome here.”

He shakes his head, but moves closer to her, as if drawn to his babe, the piece of both of them that rests within her. “I am not fit to be a father.”

“You are.” Her blood runs hot again. “You are kind and gentle to care for them, and strong to protect them.” Gentle and strong. Brave and gentle and strong.

“I do not deserve this.”

Sansa steps closer to him, laying his hand on her stomach. “And who says so? Only you. I say that I want you here with your child and I am…”

“My queen?” he asks, his breath hot against her cheek.

“The mother of your child.”

It is impossible to divine who kisses who, or whose hands first reach for the other’s clothes, pulling at laces and searching for skin. There are fewer layers to divest now as the weather has warmed over these past few moons, and Sansa’s babe is a furnace all of its own, made in and of winter.

Jon pauses when she is dressed in only her shift.. “Sansa, are you…”

“Please.” She takes his chin and moves his mouth back to hers, her teeth then tongue on his bottom lip and her fingers in his curls.

He guides her to sit on her desk, moving papers aside as he trails kisses down her throat, her chest, over where their babe sleeps. He lifts her shift and pulls down her smallclothes, kneeling down in front of her. He leaves hot kisses up her legs, giving her an inkling of what is to come. Yet it still shocks her when he places his mouth on her, when he kisses her nub and moves his tongue down to her entrance, pulling her by the hips as if he wants, needs, to be as close as possible. Sansa had heard of this act, but she had never expected to be a recipient. Jon had always made sure he gave her pleasure when they coupled, but not like this.

“Sweet Sansa, beautiful Sansa,” Jon murmurs when he lifts his mouth from her, replacing his clever tongue with his fingers. She keens then, louder still when he lavishes attention on the place that gives her such pleasure, ghosting his teeth against her before sucking. She moves her hands from the table to his hair, clinging on as she reaches her peak, drenching him with her release.

His lips and chin are shining as he rises, and his eyes glitter too. “I missed you, when I was beyond the wall.” His words are plain, and a little gruff, but they send her mind spinning. He missed her. He missed being with her like this. It may be that she is more than duty to him after all.

“I missed you, Jon.” She smooths down his curls where she has ruffled them, resting her head on his shoulder. “I thought of you each day.” The words are buried in his shirt, but she thinks he must hear them from the way he wraps her in his arms and repeats them back to her, each syllable lodging into her heart.

“Would you like to rest, Sansa?” His hands rub her back, as if he knows it is beginning to ache. She nods her head, sighing dramatically when she stands back up and looks at her dress on the ground, picking it up but failing to attempt to redress. Jon laughs at her as he throws his clothes on, before he sweeps her up into his arms. “If dressing is too onerous a task walking to your room would be impossible.”

“I cannot be seen being carried by you in my shift!” She assumes the majority of Winterfell’s loyal inhabitants know or suspect the truth of her relationship with Jon, but she does not plan on confirming it with such indelicate evidence.

He reaches for his cloak, the one she made him at Castle Black, and drapes it over her body so that nothing can be seen except her arms looped around his neck. “Is this suitable?”

She kisses his jaw in reply. His beard had barely caught her attention earlier, her face will be red tonight. She rubs her cheek against his, enjoying the grainy texture on her soft skin.

The only person who sees them on their journey to her chamber is Sam, whose eyes light up on seeing his old friend before his eyes narrow in concern. “Are you well, your grace?”

“Quite well, Sam. Mayhaps a little overcome.”

“It is good that Jon is back with us, a wonderful surprise, but it may have had a tiring effect on you. Would you like me to examine you?”

“She’s well, Sam. Thank you. I shall talk with you and Gilly later.”

Sansa catches sight of Sam’s blushes as Jon strides away and knows that her maester has deduced their earlier activities. It is not a long walk to her chamber, but she is almost asleep by the time Jon lays her carefully down on her bed, wrapping his cloak around her like a blanket. She shrugs it off for it is even warmer here.

“You should sleep, Sansa,” Jon instructs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Will you stay?” she asks, her weariness weakening her resolve not to plead.

“For now, and for tonight. But tomorrow I must go back.” He sounds like this pains him, and it appeases her a little. Not his displeasure, but that he does not want to go. She tugs his hand so that he will lay down beside her and he does so before complaining about the heat and shedding his shirt. Her hands reach out to map his chest, fingers light against his healed wounds.

Her babe awakens. “Oh!” She takes Jon’s hands and places them where their child is moving, watching his eyes grow impossibly wide. He places his head to her stomach and she can feel his tears through her shift. He kisses them there, her and their little one, whispering something in such a soft voice that it is impossible for her to hear, even in the quiet of her chamber. When he lifts his head again she asks, “Would you like to see?”

Her hands shake only a little as she removes her last layer. She feels more at home in her body now that she shares it with her child. It is where she grows her babe, not a canvas for the scars left by the kingsguard and Ramsay. It is hers, and Jon is the one man she wishes to show it to. His eyes on her are not hungry, but holy, as if she is a place to worship. His hands are somehow more gentle than ever before as they rest above where their child moves.

Silently he takes off his own remaining clothes before lying down beside her. Bare, now, together. He holds her close and she marvels at the beat of his heart, still going after being restarted, after all the battles he has fought. And he is leaving her, leaving them, to fight again.

“Return to us. Stay a while, if you can. I want to see you with our babe in your arms.” Her words now are the nearest she’s given to a command to him since becoming queen.

“I want that too. More than anything.”

She cuts him off before he gives her a ‘but’. “I know, Jon. I know.” She does not speak of the will of the gods, unsure of both Jon’s faith and sometimes her own. “Let us rest for now.”

She sleeps in his arms, their child between them. She sleeps more peacefully that she has in the longest of times.

 

*****

 

Arya comes home to Winterfell a moon’s turn after Jon leaves, as the season begins to hurtle towards spring. She arrives at night, slipping into Sansa’s solar where Sansa knits for the babe and Bran and Brienne play cyvasse (Brienne being the only person other than Sam to have the patience to play against the three eyed raven).

Arya takes one look at Sansa, raises an eyebrow, and says, “A white wolf?”

Sansa rises, which is cumbersome, and embraces her sister. She smells of the sea. “How did you know?”

“Who else?” Arya helps her sit back down.

“I wanted to tell you about the babe, but…” She hadn’t known how her sister would react, she certainly hadn’t expected her to be so calm. “It was Bran who suggested the idea. I didn’t… it wasn’t an order. I would never have made him to do it.”

Her sister frowns. “Of course you wouldn’t.” She helps herself to some ale. “I doubt he took much persuading, I doubt either of you did. The two of you have been sending each other longing looks since gods know when.”

“We have not.” Sansa picks up her knitting again, ignoring the snort that comes from Bran. She is grateful that Brienne’s face remains impassive, at least the captain of her queensguard is loyal. “Now, tell me about your travels.”

Bran and Brienne leave aside their game as they all huddle around Arya, listening to her tales of her time in the lands west of Westeros - the people she had met, the landscape she had seen, the exotic animals she’d observed. It’s fantastical and exciting, but Sansa thinks that she prefers to be listening to stories of these places by her fire rather than travelling to them herself. She is home now, and at home she will remain.

It is only after Bran and Brienne have retired that Arya speaks of Jon again. “Why isn’t he here?”

The click-clack of her needles keep Sansa calm as she tells her. “There is trouble amongst the wilding clans beyond the wall. Disputes over land and whether they should continue to range into the North, or the south as they call it. Jon feels honour-bound to help his friends, and to defend the interests of the North.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “One more war to prove he’s worthy of you.”

“It has nothing to do with me. Other than my being ruler of the North, I suppose.” Jon has nothing to prove, he just has to come home.

“I’m quite sure it has at least a little to do with you and that babe. Jon likely thinks he needs to be a hero again to take his place here.”

“He is a hero, or at least closer to one than almost anyone else I’ve ever known. And all he needs to do to take his place is to _be_ here. That’s all I… all the babe needs. His or her father with them, loving them.” Hot tears come unbidden to her eyes. “I do not care how heroic he is if it leaves him dead beyond the wall.”

“He won’t die,” Arya says. “He’s risen from the dead and survived Ramsay, the Night King, Cersei, and Daenerys. It will take more than a skirmish with some wildings to kill him.”

“You can’t know that. It could be one fight too many.” She has been tempted to ask Bran, but it feels wrong, and, more pressing than that, unwise to do so before she brings their child into the world.

“I can’t,” Arya agrees. “But if he does die before he meets his child I’ll kill him again.”

Sansa laughs, rubbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she has embroidered with three wolves - red, white, and grey. “Will you stay until the babe is born?”

“I’ll stay until you’re sick of me,” Arya promises.

“I’ll never be sick of you.” Her sister rolls her eyes. “Not enough to want you to leave.”

“Well, I shall stay for a few moons at least, and then I may go south, visit some other kingdoms.” Arya’s attempt at nonchalance is not her best.

“The Stormlands, perchance?” Sansa bows her head to look at her handiwork.

“I shall see where the wind takes me. Shouldn’t you be resting, Sansa? Isn’t that important for you and the babe?”

Sansa laughs, but the laugh soon turns into a yawn and she must acknowledge that Arya may have the right of it. Sansa and her little wolf need their rest.

 

*****

 

Her daughter comes into the world in the netherland between winter and spring. The birthing bed is brutal and bloody and beautiful. It’s a pain like none Sansa has experienced, a pain with a purpose, one that will bring joy. She has Arya and Brienne on either side of her, brave warriors who wince when she grips their hands tight. Sam attends the birth, but it is Gilly who really helps Sansa deliver, shushing her husband when he suggests that the queen lay down. Gilly walks with her around her chamber, talking her through the process as it progresses, and it is her hands who catch the princess and place her into Sansa’s waiting arms.

She is perfect. Impossibly tiny (although Gilly says she's a good size) and impossibly beautiful. She has her father’s dark hair and blue eyes that are fighting sleep, like she wants to take the whole world in now that she's arrived. “Welcome, my love. We are all so glad you're here.”

Sansa is loathe to hand her babe away now that she's finally here but everyone else has been waiting to meet her too. She is passed around the room, each person marvelling at her. Bran comes in after a time and when the baby is placed in his arms he smiles beautifully, happier now than he's been since before the fall. Gilly shoos the others away until it is just Sansa, her brother and the babe.

“I'm sure you're happy with my suggestion now,” he says, sounding very smug.

“I think you did it because you wanted a niece."

“There was nothing selfish about it,” he protests. “It was for you, Jon, and the babe. Little… ?”

Sansa reaches to take her daughter back into her arms. “Lyarra. For our grandmother.” She has always planned on naming a daughter for her mother, but that would be unfair to Jon. And she doesn't know how he’d feel about naming her Lyanna, she should have asked him when he was here. There are a great many things she should have said to him then, and they collect in her mind all at once, overwhelming her.

Bran places his hand on her elbow, strong and steady. “I said you would bear children, remember?”

It takes her a moment to decipher his meaning, but then it is such sweet relief. Jon will return, will meet his daughter and give Sansa another, or a son. She murmurs her thanks to her brother.

“I will leave you with your daughter, do as Gilly said,” he says sternly.

Gilly has ordered her to sleep when the babe did so that she could be rested when it is time to feed Lyarra for the first time. But all Sansa wants to do is watch her daughter while she sleeps, to take in every tiny detail she can. A babe so beautiful, so perfect, could only have been fashioned with the favour of the gods. And Sansa is sure that her babe’s heart is as lovely as her looks.

“Your papa isn't here to meet you today, Lyarra, but he loves you very much. He is a brave man, and an honourable one, and he is away fighting to keep you and his friends safe.” It is the first of many stories Sansa will tell her daughter.

 

*****

 

Sansa is in the godswood when she sees him again. It is spring now, fresh and bright and brilliantly new. The weather is warm enough to lie Lyarra out on a blanket underneath the heart’s tree. She loves watching the leaves fall, her eyes darting to follow them as they flow through the air. It has only been eight sennights since her birth and yet Sansa cannot imagine her life without her. It as if the world has been made anew.

Sansa is lying down on her side while Lyarra is kicking her little legs. She loves to move about and she loves when her mama talks and sings with her. Sansa coos, pointing to the pretty leaves, when she hears quick steps, one a man’s and one a direwolf’s. She pushes herself back up and sees them both stock still at the edge of the blanket. They both look exhausted, like they’ve been travelling nonstop. Jon is thin again, and there’s a scar on his right cheek that needs more attention, but he is here.

He falls down onto his knees, eyes darting back and forth between Sansa and Lyarra. “I heard… a princess.”

“Lyarra.” Sansa scoops her daughter up into her arms. “I hope you like it.”

“It’s perfect.” His voice chokes, “She’s perfect.”

“Lyarra, this is your papa, who I’ve been telling you all the stories about. I told you he would come and meet you as soon as he was able.” Sansa goes to put their child in Jon’s arms but he shakes his head.

“I don’t know how, and I’m all dirty, and…”

“I can teach you. You want to hold her, I know you do.” He’s staring down at her, drinking her in. Sansa knows he feels like she did the day Lyarra was born, the way she still does really, that there could never be enough time with her.

“If you’re sure.” He holds out his arms and Sansa places their babe carefully down, raising his right arm until Lyarra is happily settled. Ghost moves closer too, lying down in front of them. Sansa rubs the direwolf’s back while Jon catalogues their daughter. “She looks like you,” he says eventually.

“She has your hair,” Sansa cradles the dark locks, “and something of your face too,” she runs her finger over Lyarra’s nose. Lyarra smiles, something she’s been doing more and more the past sennight. “Look, she’s happy to see you!” In reality Sansa knows it is likely that Lyarra is smiling because her mama is smiling, but Jon needs some encouragement.

His face is lit up, and even with all the weariness and grime he looks a younger man again. “She’s so beautiful, Sansa.”

“She is. And so alert and interested. Everyone adores her.”

“She’s growing well? And you?” His face is stricken. “Are you well?”

“I am. Better now that you are here.” It’s on instinct that she leans in to kiss him, as if she needs to taste his lips on hers to make sure this is not a mirage. It’s so gentle at first, so chaste, but then grows hungrier as she presses herself closer to his side and he kisses her as if she is giving him the gift of life.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, his cheeks reddening and his eyes dropping down to their daughter, who Sansa is relieved to find perfectly content.

“Don’t be. Just… say you’ll stay.”

Jon runs his hand through Sansa’s hair and she relishes it, a shiver running through her. He must think she’s cold because he tucks her in under his left arm, Lyarra safe and secure in the crook of his right. “If you’ll have me.”

Sansa kisses him, softly, before settling her head against his heart, smiling down at their daughter. “I want nothing more than this, our family together here at Winterfell. Arya’s here, she and Bran will be so happy to see you.”

“I will be very happy to see them too. But for now I would like to stay here.” He leans his head on top of hers.

“Yes, my love, it has been a long journey.”

But he is here, he is home. They all are - home, safe, and loved, with new life blossoming all around. And it is oh so very sweet.  



End file.
